Bar Mitzvah
by Pilla Jeffrey
Summary: Mark Cohen wasn't expecting much from his bar mitzvah. He especially wasn't expecting Maureen Johnson.


TITLE: Bar Mitzvah  
AUTHOR: Pilla Jeffrey  
EMAIL:  
CATEGORY: Drama, Romance  
PAIRING: Mark/Maureen  
SPOILERS: None really.  
RATING: PG  
CONTENT WARNINGS: none  
SUMMARY: Mark Cohen wasn't expecting much from his bar mitzvah. He especially wasn't expecting Maureen Johnson.  
STATUS: Completed  
ARCHIVE: anywhere else, ask.  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rent.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Just a fun little ficlet that I had stored on my computer and decided to upload. Based on Mark's line in the film, "This is not my bar mitzvah!" when Maureen takes his his camera and fools around with it during New Year's.

* * *

Applause. Mark Cohen finally shook himself out of his dazed stupor, forcing a smile at the entire Jewish population within a five-mile radius. His father had just finished a speech. Mark had caught the important words: "man," "responsibility," "honor." He noticed the sorely lacking presence of such words as "proud" or "love," but that was an issue he never brought up with his father. Anyway, he was now a man, thirteen, and could care less about how distant his father acted. 

And who could be mad at this point? His grandparents had given him his bar mitzvah gift early: a camera. A real, working camera. Real, genuine, SLR camera. He'd been borrowing the Scarsdale Jr. High cameras for so long that the prospect of having his own—one that he didn't have to return during the summer—was overwhelming. Mr. Linde, the photography teacher, said that Mark could develop his photos in Linde family's lab anytime he wanted. Mr. Linde said Mark had talent.

Which was more than anyone in his family ever told him. His mother was an absent-minded, yet pushy housewife who couldn't remember to make dinner, let alone her son's activities. His father was stern, yet easily inebriated, and too often away on business to care about Mark. Of course, neither of his parents could forget about Cindy. Cindy was the perfect older sister: brilliant, social, beautiful, accepted to Yale early decision, and not at all awkward. Mark wore thick glasses and was living with the hope that one day he wouldn't have to wear braces anymore. Awkward was synonymous with his existence.

Awkward was also synonymous with this bar mitzvah. Mark had one Jewish friend, Tim Rosenberg. His father had refused to let Mark's other friends—the other two, Alex Jordan and Miranda Williams—come because Alex was an open atheist and Miranda was "a bad influence" on Mark because of her wild child, artsy nature.

So it was Mark and Tim against the entire Jewish world. Sure, Mark had been going to synagogue since he was circumcised, but he hadn't ever bothered to learn names, let alone socialize. There were kids his age, some from school. Barry Goldstein, president of the math team. Ruth Shandalov, the pretty face of the eighth grade. Nanette Himmelfarb, the rabbi's daughter. And those were only the ones he recognized. None of whom, however, who would have given him the time of day if their families weren't so connected to the synagogue.

The ceremonies finally at a close, the band took the stage. The Cohens had splurged—it was a post-modern "keeping up with the Joneses" mentality—and gotten the hottest local band, _Zumba Fruit!_, to play. _Zumba Fruit!_ was wise enough to make themselves widely accessible, and could play traditional tunes as well as rock. As everyone danced, Mark got his camera out and sat in the chair furthest from the dance floor after the mandatory dancing, fiddling with the two additional lenses that his grandparents had given him. The film was in; all that was left was to take the photos.

It was at that moment that his mother surprised him. He was used to being antisocial, and his parents accepted his solitude usually without any interruptions. That being said, Mark was completely shocked when he heard his mother talking near him, and finally even more shocked when she addressed him. "Mark, I'd like you to meet someone. This is my best friend when I was your age, Hope Johnson, and her daughter."

Mark looked up from his camera and nearly dropped it. Standing before him was perhaps the most beautiful, vibrant girl he'd ever seen. She was like the photo he had always wanted to take. Her features were slightly peculiar, but magical together. Her dark, curly hair fell in wild, yet immaculately styled ringlets around her face. Her lips were in a coy pout, her cheeks flushed with color above sharp cheekbones and a long nose. But most remarkable were her eyes. They were unusual in shape—like a cat's, Mark thought—but also in inherent design. They were deep, intense, and utterly captivating. They were like the wisest oracle at Delphi met with the hottest cheerleader at Scarsdale High. There was zeal, artistry—yet at the same time there was such coldness in them, but a coldness that could light his being on fire. And for a moment, Mark thought his soul jumped out of his body and claimed this vision as its own, its ultimate inspiration.

"Don't gawk, dear," his mom reprimanded. "Maureen's new here. You shouldn't gawk."

The vision—Maureen—smiled. "Maureen Johnson," she introduced, smiling even more. Her voice was lyrical, piercing, passionate. It rang in his soul. Mark was sure that he was still gawking. Maureen didn't seem to mind. She evidently knew how desirable she was, how beautiful, how entrancing.

Their mothers sighed, leaving the two alone. If Mark's mother knew anything, it was that Mark was fully capable of embarrassing himself without her help, a quality that let her spend more time around the cake table as long as Mark was doing a good enough job of ruining his own life.

Maureen sat next to him, her knee touching his. Mark could only guess how badly this entire situation was going to go, his heart pounding too fast for him to even think. "So," she began, "do you have a name?"

Mark blinked. He hadn't introduced himself. "I—I'm Mark. Mark Cohen."

"And it's your bar mitzvah. Congrats." She smiled that intoxicating smile again.

Mark laughed—hopefully with relative comfort. "This day could be much worse. At least my dad kept the speech short. All I want to do is get out of here."

A shocked sound came out of Maureen. "Get out? The party's just begun!" She began swaying to the beat, her foot tapping, her voice singing along. God, could she sing. She looked at him like he should be just as impassioned as she was. And to be truthful, looking at her made him feel more alive.

"You know, you could have fun if you just let yourself," she said. "What's that?"

Before Mark had realized it, Maureen had grabbed his camera from his hands and pointed it at him. "Hi Mark! Smile at me! Smile!"

Despite her demands, Mark was too much in shock to smile. "Maureen, put that down! You're going to break it."

"Oh, Marky. I'm not going to break it." She faced the camera at herself and took a picture. She then turned the camera—now more weapon than artistic medium—onto its owner. "Marky, smile for me. Come on. Smile for me!"

A flash disoriented him, followed by spots of light in his vision. Mark desperately wanted his camera back in his own hands. Mark did not reside in front of the camera. He hated being in pictures. Even this mystically empowered girl couldn't stop him from hating being in front of the camera. "Maureen, please."

Maureen smiled. "Whatcha gonna do about it, Mark? Whatcha gonna do?" And with that, she ran away with his camera, Mark in desperate pursuit.

All Mark could think about was what if Maureen dropped it. The best gift he'd ever gotten, smashed to pieces before he ever got to use it. Finally, he cornered Maureen in the rabbi's office. "Maureen," he said calmly, "give me my camera back."

Maureen pouted. "And what will you do for me?"

_Anything_, he thought. "Anything."

This made the diva happy. "Alright then." Her lips curved into a devilish grin. "Close your eyes."

Mark swallowed. "What?!"

"Trust me. Close your eyes."

Mark closed his eyes. She couldn't do anything that outrageous to him. Probably could lock him in here. But his parents would probably realize by the end of the night that he was missing and find him. She couldn't do anything crazy. She was wild, but not crazy, right?

And suddenly his mind stopped. It took him a second to understand what was happening. She was kissing him. Her lips, so delectable on her own face, were even more delicious on his own. Mark, a virgin kisser in every way, stumbled his way in reciprocation. Her mouth and hands guided his own, her tongue causing his body to overload, his mind to go blank as his arms held her closer to him.

Just as soon as it had started, it had ended. Mark opened his eyes and found himself in the room with his camera, alone.

* * *

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